


Looking Up

by captainflintsjacket



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Meet Messy, Some Swearing, Some angst, as per usual, some yelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-06 17:39:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20510903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainflintsjacket/pseuds/captainflintsjacket
Summary: Based on the prompt: "I’ve had a really awful day so i started kicking a car out of frustration and it turned out to be your car I’m so sorry."





	Looking Up

The air was too thick in the office, choking you as you swallowed back tears. The once gentle hum of the air conditioner sounded like a wordless scream falling on the deaf ears of your supervisor as he sat across the desk from you, looking awkwardly at his hands.

“Fired,” you whispered again. You thought repeating the word would make it sound less foreign, but it felt just as strange on your tongue.

“Not fired,” he said, voice oozing the faux happiness you’d only experienced directed at customers, “Let go.” You were still trying to process what he said when he was ushering you back to your office, which had already been packed up. Four years of college, five years of work, and one fading dream all stuffed into two cardboard boxes propped on top of your now empty desk.

You struggled to balance both boxes under your chin as you made your way to the elevator, mind still racing with thoughts of what you were going to do now. This had been your dream job, the vision that kept you going through college when the stress from tests got too much, when you sacrificed social time to work at internship after internship. You reached forward to press the call button when you saw the sign on the elevator. Under maintenance. Your throat burned and you had to pinch your eyes shut to keep yourself from crying. You could feel your shirt clinging to you as sweat began sliding down your spine. Your arms were shaking lightly already from the strain of carrying the boxes. With a sigh, you went to the stairwell, hoping your arms would hold up until you got to your bike.

The stairwell light flickered, making the way down more ominous. Your footsteps echoed in the hallway, and you tried to commit the sound to memory. The droning of the fluorescent lights and the distant smell of toner. You didn’t realize how much you’d miss. You were rounding the corner to the second floor when someone came flying out of the stairwell exit, crashing into you and almost sending you careening down the stairs. You latched onto the railing, dropping your boxes but managing to stay standing.

“Sorry,” the person said, bolting down the stairs without stopping to help you up. You watched your belongings tumble down, echoing in the hall and in your head, reminding you how hollow you felt now. A picture frame hit the floor and shattered. Your Christmas office party two years ago. The year Jim told you you were getting a promotion. You collected your things as you went down the stairs, stopping at the picture with a heavy heart, walking past to leave it for the spiders. Clearly, you didn’t matter to the company so they shouldn’t matter to you.

The brightness of the sun lit up the shadows of your face, and you walked out of the office head held high, a plan forming (if you could call a date with a bottle of vodka a plan). You still had an apartment. You still had your bike. You were going to get through this. You’d take a couple days off and really enjoy your newfound freedom before hitting a few local places that were always hiring. You opened your eyes, ready to take on the rest of the day, and your heart shattered.

Your bike was stuck under a car, tire rim twisted into a menacing metal smile. The pink wicker basket that normally sat on your handlebars was cracked in half across the sidewalk. The boxes slipped from you grasp again, contents hitting the ground and scattering. A few papers got caught up in the wind and blew away along with any shred of self-preservation you had left. You pushed your sleeves up slowly, methodically, as your mind went into autopilot. As you walked towards the offending car, blissfully unaware of what was to come, a smile spread across your face. You were definitely losing it.

Your boot bounced straight off the tire the first time you kicked. You swung your foot again, hitting the rim this time. Pain shot through your foot but you swung again mercilessly. The pain kept you grounded, helped you fight against the haziness that tore at your vision and the tightness building in your chest. You kicked again, hitting the bumper. Tears began to fall freely now as you kicked the bumper again, this time leave a small dent. You lifted your foot to swing again when a strong hand grabbed your arm and pulled you away from the car.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind? That’s my fucking car.”

“And that’s my fucking bike you ran over,” you screamed. People on the streets were turning to look, but you couldn’t find the energy to be embarrassed. Why not let them get first row seats to watch your life fall apart? You balled up your fist and hit him weakly against the chest. “It was all I had.” Another swat, another sob. “And you b-broke it.” You staggered back against his car, letting the despair wash over you.

The man stood dumbfounded, not quite sure if you would hit him again or keep crying. Although, he probably deserved another smack for making such an angel hurt so deeply. God, he can’t remember the last time he saw a face as perfect as yours, hair tumbling down and framing it. He wasn’t exactly a religious man, but damn if Leonard McCoy wasn’t having a spiritual moment right now. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said gently, reaching to put a hand on your arm. When you didn’t pull away, he started to rub small circles on your skin. “I’ll buy you a new bike, I promise.”

“No,” you said, choking back another sob, “No, I’m sorry it’s just been a really shitty day. I got fired and then the elevator was broken and I fell down the stairs and then I found out my bike was broken and now I’m spilling my guts to a really hot stranger on the street and I just can’t stop talking I just can’t sto-”

Luckily, another sob cut you off before you could keep rambling on. The man in front of you only laughed, pulling you into a hug. You wrapped your arms around his waist, feeling his broad chest pressed against yours, feeling protected. “How about you let me buy you lunch, sugar? I know a restaurant close by with a pecan pie so good I think my mama must’ve sold them the recipe.”

“I’m allergic to pecans,” you muttered into his chest. He chuckled again as he reached past you to open the passenger door. You shamelessly ran your hands across his chest and down to his waist, feeling every dip and curve of his muscles through his white dress shirt. “I’m Y/N, by the way,” you muttered as you slipped into the car.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr @trade-baby-blues


End file.
